


The Answer Is Always Yes

by akatlo



Category: Last Tango In Halifax
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:10:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5626096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akatlo/pseuds/akatlo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There it is: confirmation for anyone who cares that this will never be anything more than a series of late night booty calls and drunk- no, that’s wrong, there has been no drink this time around. None that got you laid anyway because she won’t do it; you’re worth more than that, so she says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Answer Is Always Yes

**Author's Note:**

> Characters are not mine.
> 
> I've got a few ideas for other pieces so this may end up becoming multi chapter; or part of a series of one-shots - providing I actually ever finish anything I start.

“Do you ever think that we probably shouldn’t be doing this?”

You ask yourself this questions multiple times a day – when you wake up and she’s there sprawled across the bed and pinning you down with strategically placed limbs. When you’re walking through a department store and catch a whiff of the perfume she wears. When you finally get around to clearing up after a night together and her lipstick stain is still there, bold as brass, on the wine glass she bought over after you served her Lambrusco in a plastic tumbler. When you realise that all of these things give you butterflies and that you want nothing more than to give her a call; hold her, let her know you’re thinking of her.

“You ask me that every time we’re together. The answer’s always yes.”

A look of hurt passes over your face, fleetingly; eyes glazing over and brow furrowing before you’ve even registered what’s happening. You return to normal as quickly as you can but she’s seen it: she can read you like a book. Fronting it out you maintain eye contact and she’s up, resting on her elbow and claiming your lips with her own. It’s sweet and tender and beautiful and everything that this isn’t meant to be –

“We shouldn’t be doing this, no, but I lo... enjoy the time we spend together. As long as we’re on the same page there’s no reason we can’t – um, discreetly – carry on as we are.”

There it is: confirmation for anyone who cares that this will never be anything more than a series of late night booty calls and drunk- no, that’s wrong, there has been no drink this time around. None that got you laid anyway because she won’t do it; you’re worth more than that, so she says. You can call any time, day or night, and she’ll come but if she thinks for a second you won’t remember this in the morning then she’ll take you to bed, let you rest your head on her chest and stroke your hair until you fall asleep. She’ll be there when you wake up; a steaming coffee in that mug you knew she’d hate and a couple of painkillers on the bedside table.

She’s been feathering your upper body with kisses the whole time you’ve been lost in thought, tracing the damp trail with her fingers. No one has ever lavished such attention on you before; carried out such a thorough examination of every inch of skin. You’re fairly confident that - if asked - she could map every wrinkle, freckle, scar and burn that covers you. There’s an unfamiliar pang in your chest as you realise no one has ever made you feel as safe a she does.

“I always… when I call you it’s…”

Her lips pressed to your temple.

“I know.”

You believe her; wholeheartedly. She does know. The need to research comes naturally and you’re her new favourite subject.

You move to straddle her, to let her know exactly what she means to you, but before you’re able to dip down and bury your head into the crook of her neck she’s stopped you. She’s brushed the stray hair out of your eyes and she’s sat up slightly, cupping your face in her hands and softly brushing your cheeks with each thumb. You’ve locked eyes again and you’re struck, not for the first time, by how beautiful she is.

“I never want to hurt you. If I thought for a second that I was doing the same thing to you as –“

It’s her turn to look hurt and your turn to silence her fears.

“I love you.”

Shit. Well, you’ve certainly silenced something. All you needed to do was flash her a smile, pull her in close and let her know that she’s never done anything to you that you didn’t want. It’s out there now, hanging, thickening the air between you; no going back.

She’s unreadable, her face alternating ever so slightly between confusion and disbelief and affection and maybe there’s even a hint of pity there just for good measure. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did you go and say that? Even if she feels the same, and why would she because you’re just some screwed up piece of trash that was there and you both needed a release and it worked at the time? No, even if she feels the same she won’t say it. She can’t. Shit, the last person she loved walked out on her and she couldn’t bring herself to tell them; and they were going to have a baby for Christ’s sake!

Well, she hasn’t said anything; hasn’t cut you down. She hasn’t even tried to move from under you, which is something.

“I, um… that wasn’t supposed to come out like that, I just meant that – “

“Shut up.”

She’s flipped you onto your back and now your positions are almost exactly reversed. Her right hand is pinning your wrists above your head and her left is travelling south fast. One last questioning glance, you giving her all the reassurance she needs and she’s inside you, playing you to the ultimate crescendo. In that moment she doesn’t need to say it back because you can feel it in every tiny adjustment she makes; you can see it in her eyes which haven’t left yours the whole time.

The realisation is as powerful as the climax that accompanies it. You stay perfectly still after the come down, eyes shut and revelling in the sensation of her breath on your skin as she kisses her way up and down your torso, not wanting to wake up and find this had all been a dream.

All too soon you feel the familiar rush of cold air as she pulls back the covers, throws her legs over the side of the bed and, without a word, begins to scramble around the bedroom collecting everything you’d removed from her body hours earlier. Watching her dress is the best and worst part of every encounter: a choreographed dance performed with such precision that it’s impossible not to watch. You try though; try to tear your eyes away and hold off the darkness that begins to engulf you even before she’s gone.

This time, though, there is none of that.  No reverse strip-tease, just a saunter across the room to grab your threadbare dressing gown hanging on the wardrobe door. As she pulls it on she looks back, notices the confused expression plastered all over your face and smiles like it’s the most obvious thing in the world:

“You never lock your front door – I’m not risking a naked dash to the toilet in the middle of the day!”


End file.
